Heroes & Thieves
by PseudoLucky
Summary: Gambit finds himself captured yet again . But this time his captors aren't looking to kill - they want him to join their side. Everything gets a bit more hectic for Gambit and X-Men when another mutant is found within the prison walls. Gambit/OC
1. Cell Breaks

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything related to X-Men, the movies, the comics, etc. etc. This is purely fanfiction to feed my own desire.

**Warnings:** Please note that this is a **mature** rated fanfiction. It is rated that way for use of language, suggestion of nonconsensual sex, and consensual sexual situations (in later chapters). That said, please realize I also try my best to keep the writing about sexual encounters as tasteful as possible.

**Author's Note:** There's just a few things that I need to let you guys know about: while I feel like I can spin an interesting plot and story, you must note that this is a fanfiction created for my personal take on the X-Men World and is completely **AU [alternate universe].** **I take most of what I write from the movies**, some from what I know of the comic universe, and the rest from my head. Also note that this is a **Gambit/OFC [own-female/fictional-character]**. And it does revolve around this coupling. But – that said – please give Brinley a chance to get rounded out completely – I have tried my hardest to give her a complete past and full personality, complete with quirks, pros, and cons. Also, this piece was brought about by my own fruitful imagination and Vanessa Carlton's newest CD, where you will find the song "Heroes and Thieves".

**What's the Timeline: **I'm taking a LOT of liberties of mixing the movies (all 4) and (sometimes) comic universes. This is to help you situate yourself in what to expect in the story. "**Heroes and Thieves" is set **_**after **_**X-Men 2. Kind of.** I'm writing in a slightly different explanation of the flood – I don't want Jean to drown, and I don't need her to be (fully) psycho Phoenix that they portray in X3. So, that means that Jean, Scott, and the Professor are still alive. Ta-da! Here's where it gets screwy: I love _X-Men Origins_, and I like how they portrayed Gambit. :-/ Therefore, **I take most of my Gambit from Taylor Kitsch's Gambit, seen in X-Men Origins. **That makes him about the same age as he was in _Origins_ in this story (mid-twenties, maybe? I haven't done the research). Other characters will (probably – unless at the last minute they get edited out) appear that were either in _X3 _or the comics, such as Belladonna (which I may have taken liberties with how I portray her, too) and Hank McCoy. Oh, and I love **Live Schreiber's Creed/Sabretooth **instead of Tyler Mane's Sabretooth (first X_-Men Movie_)**. **To me,Schreiber plays a much more interesting & well-rounded character…so, um, if Sabretooth shows up, it's Schreiber's Creed/Sabretooth. I just confused everybody even more, didn't I? :( Sorry!

***

**Heroes and Thieves**

**Chapter 1: Cell Breaks**

_Heroes and Thieves at my door  
I can't seem to tell them apart anymore_

_-_Vanessa Carlton, "Heroes and Thieves"

***

It was cold and dark in the cells; yellow sunlight sparkled in the silence, cut by the black bars that covered the high windows. The doors of the cells were solid iron, with bar-blocked peaking windows at eye level, and meal slots near the bottom.

It was late afternoon as a man, dressed in a general blue and black guard's outfit, making sure his pants were zipped up and settled just right, landed a quick, derogatory kick to the thigh of a girl on the floor, and left the damp cell, making sure it was completely locked behind him. Two other guards waited for the man outside the cell, and then quickly, without looking back, finished their rounds (chuckling and telling stories to each other).

The girl, on her hands and her knees by the wood piece that was deemed a "cot", held her stomach as she began heaving the contents of it in the pail that was used as a toilet. Thin scraps of what used to be a t-shirt and shorts hung to her thin body, remnants of the clothing she had when she was brought to the prison. A thin, metal-type collar ordained her throat, though she barely seemed to notice it. As soon as her stomach was empty, she curled on her side on the cold, stone floor hoping that the evening would bring fresh bread – instead of the molded, too old biscuits.

Somewhere further down the various lines of prison cells, the loud, thick click of the ward's door was closed and locked as the prison guards moved to the other sections of the prison. The closing door echoed across the cells; she was almost positive that this ward kept almost no one within its walls. In fact, since she had just been previously moved to her new cell that morning, she wasn't even sure there were any other inmates other than herself.

"Chere?" A whispered voice came through to her cell.

Creasing her brow, she quickly questioned why – _how_ – someone knew she was there. But she realized quickly that was an idiotic question. If this ward was genuinely as empty as she thought it was, it would be easy for anyone to hear the arrival of a new prisoner. And even though she had only been there for less than a day, she knew that after the visits from the guards, it was almost impossible to figure out the sex of the new inmate when sounds reverberated so easily against the stony walls.

"Chere? Ya there?"

Gently scrambling to her feet, she made her way to the small window in her door; she saw no one staring back at her from the three or four cells she could see.

"Where are you?" She tentatively responded, not stepping away from her door.

"They don' keep me too close t' both doors."

"Is there anyone else in here?"

"Ah, not dat I know of. I don' think dey want to keep too many of us in here."

The girl sighed and sat in the corner next to her door, leaning against the wall. A couple of minutes filled with silence before she heard his voice again. "What's yer name, chere?"

She gave the question a thought, then smiled a little bit. "Brinley. And your's?"

"Remy."

"A pleasure, then."

"Not exactly what I was thinkin', but alright."

Another silence crept through the prison cells.

"Remy?"

"Oui?"

"How long you been here?"

A snuffle-like sound (she guessed a sound in commentary on his stay in the cell blocks). "A month o' two, I guess. Hard to keep track."

"Yeah. I know. Hard to keep track."

A couple of clicks and the thick sound of the ward's main door rang through the stone walls again, and hard footsteps began walking down the hallways. Moments later, a guard smiled maliciously down at her through the bars and a plate of rough food clattered through the food slot. She paid little attention to him, used to the treatment, and grabbed the fresh bread, taking it to her little cot.

"Eat up, sweetheart," the guard growled through the bars. "Big day tom'ro."

The night crept in quickly as she finished her meal. And with the guards standing watch for a while longer in the nighttime, there was no more subdued conversation from her ward mate. Instead, she left her food plate near the entrance of her cell and fitfully slept through the night on her new bed.

***

"Wake up," a woman's voice hissed as Brinley's ankle was grabbed and she found herself pulled from the semi-soft cot to the hard floor.

"Ugh – what the –" Brinley mumbled before she realized what was happening. A slap in her face made her realize that she was close to angering the newcomers.

"You, eat. We come back in a half hour."

Brinley watched the guard and the tall, blonde woman leave her cell, and then noted the breakfast left on her cot where she had been. Even with the unexpected wakening, she found they left food that was no more desirable than normal. She ate, knowing it would be hell if she disobeyed. She figured, according to how much sun was making it into her cell, it was late morning – she was surprised she had been able to sleep so long.

It wasn't long before they returned. This time, she got a better look at the woman – she was almost certain she had seen her before; the woman was pretty, mid-thirties, wearing a business skirt-suit, and black heels that were probably a tad too high for modesty. A guard stooped to grab Brinley by the arm, earning her a disdainful look from the woman.

"I dun see why we even keep her cloths. They're almost gone anyways," the guard muttered.

"Shut up." The woman grabbed Brinley's face and looked at her up and down. The clothes were slowly been ripped away, showing more skin than they would otherwise. Pale skin was marked with bruises of varying intensity, but she seemed to meet the woman's expectations anyways. "She's not really meant for your enjoyment anyways. Now," she directed her conversation to Brinley. "You're going to be a good girl, and do what you've told, right?" Her hand tightened her grip as she felt Brinley's body try to flinch out of reach. "Right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Now, bring her." The woman began to walk down the somewhat long aisle of cells, around a corner, to where another guard stood in front of a cell. As they came into view, the guard leered at Brinley before unlocking the cell and opening the door. The woman walked in, sizing up the brown-haired man sitting haphazardly on his cot.

"Mornin', chere!" He grinned, gaining a sniff of disinterest from the woman.

Crossing her arms, she watched him half-interested. "While I see no promise within you, and therefore no reason to keep you around, my superiors seem to disagree with me. So, now, Gambit, I'm here on behalf of them to prove that there is a reason to be _most helpful_ to us. Besides the normal – room and board, money – we can make sure your life is –" she paused as she signaled the guard to bring the brunette girl into the cell – "much more, ah, _appeasing._" The woman's fingers grazed through the tangled mess of Brinley's hair, and her mouth turned up in a half-smile. "Now, my dear Gambit, I've been told to tell you that she's yours – if you like her, and choose to be most cooperative with us. Or, we can find another – although I think you should know that it's taking years to break her; we may not be able to bring you a suitable replacement quickly. I think you'll find this is a _very enticing deal_ – one that we don't give out to many of our inmates."

The woman gave Brinley a slight push forward, the guard releasing her arm. "Now, you two have fun, won't you? Oh, and you should probably know that Ralphie and John are guarding you two. So don't think about trying some funny trick to get out. And it would, well, be really disheartening for me to find out from them that you didn't want to try out our gift to you. I don't think that any of us really want to go down that road."

A false smile and she left the cell, followed by the guards who finished locking it up and settled into the posts by the door.

Inside, the two watched each other tentatively. The man, although dirty, was still well-dressed; a button-up deep purple shirt and black pants adorned him. A dark coat lay, discarded and empty, in the corner of the room where he had thrown it earlier that week.

"Why do they call you Gambit?"

"Because. Remy don't make too many people happy when he plays the cards and wins. And he always wins."

Brinley jumped slightly as a heavy bang came from the outside of the door and Ralphie called in. "Ya better hurry up there, or we'll have to be tellin' Miss Murrey that you ain't worth shit, missy." The two guards laughed at the threat, but Brinley took the tentative steps until she stood in front of the watchful Cajun.

Leaning forward, she whispered pleadingly. "Look – normally, I wouldn't ever do this. But they don't like me enough as it is. And I don't want to think about – well, I guess –" She fumbled with the buttons that were left on her shorts. "You don't have to like me. But can we just do this? I don't know what they'll do to me if she comes back and we're only sittin' here, having a conversation."

"Well, I s'pose I can't just let a femme get abused because I don't like the circumstances," the slight joke in his voice was lost in the bulky feeling the situation left in the cell. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he pulled her closer until she was forced onto the cot against his body. And as her lips found his neck, she noticed he smelled, not unkindly, of wafting cigarette smoke and spice; she breathed in deeply, her senses overwhelmed with the first new scents she had smelled in years.

***

Brinley drew her knees up to her chest and hugged her now-clothed body, resting her cheek on her knee.

"Where are you from?"

"N'Orleans."

"New Orleans?" She cocked an eyebrow, slightly interested.

"Louisiana."

"I know where –" But she was cut off as the cell door suddenly unlocked and was wrenched open, and Miss Murrey and the two guards entered. John, the bulkier of the guards, grabbed Brinley from her seat on the cot, and with a nod from the Miss Murrey, she was lead out of the cell and onto her own.

"Well? Have you rethought anything?" The woman asked Gambit.

"Yer kind, but I don' think I want to help ya. Or your friends," he grinned back at her.

"We'll see about that," she huffed, leaving him to the silence.

***

Days began to pass, and slowly a new routine began to replace Brinley's old schedule from her last cell. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, sleep – that was all the same. And she did get to skip the more frequent beatings and the random white-coated doctors (or, at least that's what they said they were) observing her, making notes in their notebooks. These events were changed out, instead, with every two or three days Miss Murrey showing up to her cell, yanking on her metal neckpiece (collar?) to make sure it was still in acceptable condition. And then she would take Brinley, with the help of a guard or two, to Gambit's cell in hopes of convincing him.

But, even with her body being used, beaten, and generally uncared for – she began to think she still got the better end of the deal. Because as she was lead back to her cell, if she listened hard enough she could hear the exchange between Murrey and the Cajun. And Murrey seemed to have run out of patience after that first day. Brinley could hear the thick _thumps_ of physical beating – and that's where she normally tried to stop listening. The next time she was brought to Gambit's cell, she noticed the bruises on his skin, but it was something she never mentioned to the man. Instead, she did what was expected of her by the guards and let the whole experience start over again.

***

Brinley was tired – sleep clouded her eyes, and she stared up at the blank ceiling, trying to understand how it was possible she would just wake up in the middle of the night. She hadn't had nightmares since the first year she was boarded up – so figured that couldn't have been the issue. Winter was just beginning to set in, and her breath rose in mist above her, white in the starlight.

A huge crash, unlike any that she had heard since being in the prison, resounded across the air, earning shouts from the guards.

"Well, hell. There goes trying to be subtle," a gruff voice came through the darkness.

"You're really one to talk, Wolverine. Do you ever do anything subtle?" Another man's voice answered the complaint.

"Well – here we go – " and as the man said those words, Brinley heard the _shink_ of metal being withdrawn, followed by (what she assumed to be) bloody gurgles.

Scared of what she could only assume to be an invasion, Brinley scuffled off her cot and tried desperately to fit under the small space under the cot, in the farthest corner of her cell.

As quickly as there was a commotion, a silence – broken only by muffled running footsteps down the aisles – claimed the ward once again. She flinched again as she heard a thick piece of metal fall to the ground somewhere deeper into the cell blocks.

"Alright, let's go, Cajun," she heard someone mutter further away in the darkness. "You're more trouble than yer worth, sometimes – you know that?"

And again, she heard footsteps pass her cell as some of the invaders began to work towards leaving the prison with (she assumed, once again) the other prisoner, Gambit.

"Wait, mon ami! There's another in here –" She heard Gambit's voice a few cells down from her own. "Chere?"

She watched, wide-eyed, at her cell door. But, unbidden, her fear of retribution from her captors kept her from calling out. Plus, just because one set of captors treats you horribly, doesn't mean their invaders are going to be any better.

"Really, Cajun? Now's the time you're going to go all heroic?"

"It will take but a minute – I know she's in one of these –" And then Brinley could hear the fiddling of metal in metal, and then a huff from the other man.

"Hey, One-Eye, if we're ever gonna get out of here, do you think you can help us start opening up some of these cells?"

And after an angry mumble, she heard the metal padlocks quickly start falling to the ground, through methods of lock-picking, shearing, and smoldering. It was not, in fact, a very comforting sound as some might think it was – instead, it was a much more frightening. And then, suddenly, she heard the padlock to her cell door fall to the ground and her door swing open.

"This who you're looking for?" The gruff-speaking man asked, with a cigar in his mouth.

She stared at the man, stunned at the night's turn of events, and barely moved as she saw Gambit come into view. "Ah! Chere! How much more simple ya could have made this!" Walking into her cell and throwing his thigh-length coat that had been piled in the corner of his room over her shoulders, he helped her to her feet and began leading her out of the cell.

"Jean and Storm are in the plane just a little bit away – it's quick to get there, as long as those guards didn't raise too much of an alarm," a man that kept a visor-looking thing over his eyes briefed Gambit as they made their way to the exit.

Brinley, her system slowly going into shock, watched curiously as they passed the two dead guards and walked over the ward's door that had been burned off its hinges. As they hurried along the corridors and hallways, they found out that the alarm _had_, indeed, been raised. But, as fate would have it that night, they were able to skirt around the guards as they heard them coming – the dark hallways that lacked electricity helped in the hiding of the escapers. They made quick time to a make-shift exit, through some surrounding trees, and onto a small, grassy meadow that had begun to frost over. And there, hidden by the shadows of the old trees, a large, silver jet sat waiting for them. And as they approached, the bottom hatch opened, awaiting their entrance.

Brinley, unquestioning and in shock, made her place to a back part of the jet after she was – almost literally – pulled aboard by the man called Wolverine. In a matter of seconds, they were all aboard and she could feel the jet lift off of the ground and begin making its travel.

"Who's - ?" A woman with white hair whispered to Wolverine.

"Apparently one of Gambit's new friends –" the man gruffly responded.

"Mon ami! Do ya think we should 'ave jus' left 'er?"

But the rest of the conversation began to drown out as the lost sleep began to overwhelm Brinley. She gave up trying to listen to the whispered argument – or conversation – and found herself curling up in the warmth of the smoke-scented coat and falling asleep to the almost imperceptible hum of the jet's engine.


	2. Beginnings of Histories

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything related to X-Men, the movies, the comics, etc. etc. This is purely fanfiction to feed my own desire.

**Author's Note:** Thank you for those that have stopped by to read the story and those that left reviews! :) Much appreciated. That said, I wanted to address the **timeline issue.** I've updated the first chapter to have a better, more in-depth description of where my screwed-up mind has placed this…so check out the Author's Note in the first chapter. **But**…you should also know that I've taken **a lot of liberties. **:/ So, even though I added a more in-depth description, there's bits and pieces that I've liked from the first three X-Men Movies _and_ Origins. (So, long story short, I'm trying to offer insight into my timeline but I'm afraid, because I like different characters in the movies and how they're portrayed, I've kind of been forced to take a lot of liberties. :-/ ) **Note for this chapter:** Whoa, I added some rooms to the medical section of Xavier's School. Er, it seemed plausible to me…but as far as I know, there's really no movie or comic backing to it.

***

**Heroes and Thieves**

**Chapter 2: Beginnings of Histories**

_Keep moving along until I can get through this  
But maybe this song is the best I can do it _

_-_Vanessa Carlton, "Heroes & Thieves"

***

Brinley's head swam with fuzziness as she slowly awoke, pressing her eyes even more tightly closed against the bright light that threatened to invade.

_Well, crap – I haven't had dreams that intense since…_

_What exactly happened, again? There was a jet…and some men…and Remy, from the other cell…and…Lord, I hope the guards didn't hear me have a dream. I don't need 'nother visit to the "psychiatric" ward…_

"And there's always the outward chance she'll be suffering from some form of Stockholm Syndrome," a male voice in the background mumbled, barely audible (but then, Brinley didn't even know if she was actually hearing it).

But as Brinley's hearing became more attuned to her surroundings, she realized a machine beeped near her bed. Almost simultaneously, she realized that she wasn't laying on the wooden cot that she normally slept on. The new bed wasn't the most comfortable, still – but it wasn't where she was supposed to be.

She sat up quickly, heart pounding, as she realized what it all meant. Without thinking, she quickly brushed off the medical monitor cords, ripping out an IV as she did so. But before her legs could make it over the side of the bed, the blood rushed to her head – blacking out her vision – caused by the quick change of position from laying to sitting. She held her head in her hands, feeling the small trickle of blood make its way down her hand from the IV as she waited the few seconds it took to regain her sight.

"Oh my. We weren't expecting you to wake up so soon. Did you rip that out? Well, it was just to help with dehydration, but you weren't in critical condition it seemed…you should be alright now. Here –"

Brinley slowly looked up, confused. She didn't recognize the voice, and she didn't recognize the blue man....or animal, whatever it was. Mutant? She hesitantly took the cotton square he held out, pressing it against the small injury the IV left. A red-headed women came to stand next to Hank, casting a concerned look at her.

"I'm Hank McCoy. And this," Hank gestured towards the red-head, "is Jean. I believe they said your name was Brinley?"

Brinley barely noticed that he had asked for verification of her name. Instead, she looked around, trying to understand where she was.

"I thought it was a dream," she said softly.

"Excuse me?"

She blinked and tried to focus on the blue mutant. "Where am I?"

"Xavier's School for the Gifted. The medical quarter, exactly. What exactly is your name? I really do like to put a name to a face…" Hank tried again for the woman's name.

"Oh, um – Brinley. Or 'Brin' for short. Is there something wrong with me?" She asked, gesturing to the IV and cords that Jean was beginning to put away.

"Not that we can tell of yet. Some of the team brought Gambit and yourself in early this morning – it's the afternoon, now – and you didn't wake up when you got brought in, so I hooked you up to a monitor and some fluid to help out. Gambit was a bit more lucid, so we got a bit more of an understanding on the treatment at the prison…" Jean answered.

"Gambit?"

"Yes…the other man at the prison? He's sleeping now, I hope, at least. Looked him over…luckily nothing too much more serious than being a bit underfed, and plenty of bruises from their treatment of him. But, somehow – no broken bones."

The sounds of a door opening came across the room, and Hank mumbled a quick 'wait right here' as he went to meet the visitor. Brin realized, as she started her observation of her new surroundings, that her bed was near the back, and the 'medical quarter' was much larger than she originally surmised. The room was littered with small, sleek LCD screens that held diagrams and (what she assumed to be) mathematical equations that she couldn't decipher (or her's – which had been grafting her heart beats), and there were a handful of medical beds, but none had any occupants. Where she was set up was actually in a secluded corner of the larger medical quarter, and she saw two doors that sat, closed, on opposite walls of the corner. Her curiosity piqued, but the company of the other woman stopped her. Instead, she tossed the used cotton square in a small waste bin and sat, uncomfortably itchy, scratching her arms.

As Hank led the newcomer into the area where Brinley sat, she was looking at the men's button-up shirt (made out of some irritatingly scratchy material) that she was now dressed in. And if that wasn't enough, she realized her old shorts were gone, and in their place were some newer fabric shorts.

"I changed you since the clothes you came in had seen a lot of wear. We threw them out – sorry, but we didn't really see a need of keeping them," Jean explained to the unasked question. "I hope you don't mind. The men's shirts were the best option since they're button up and don't cover the skin too tightly. We didn't know how badly off you were…are. And we didn't think you'd appreciate waking up in a hospital gown," she added, smiling.

"Oh, yes – well, this is much better than a hospital gown. Thank you."

"This is Logan," Jean gestured to Logan, who somewhat grunted as he watched Brin. "He isn't, ah, too social at times."

Brin gave a half-hearted smile to her visitor, but was increasingly growing distracted with the scratchy fabric.

"Is there some wrong?" Hank asked.

"Oh, it's, just…well, thank you – really – but this shirt is just _scratchy_," she answered, a slight flush appearing on her face. She was surprised when she heard Jean give a sort of concealed giggle, then look at Logan, who looked taken back.

"What?!? These shirts are _comfortable…_" He answered Jean's look, picking at his plaid shirt. Yet after a thoughtful look from Hank, and a smirk from Jean, Logan sighed in a disgruntled way. "_Fine._ I'll go round up some other shirts for her to try on. I didn't realize women got pickier with their clothes after they got locked up."

Logan stalked off, earning the flush to deepen on Brin's features. Jean shook her head, smiling, and moved to the other side of the bed, tinkering with one of the LCD screens Brinley had seen.

"Not a problem, at all – other shirts can be found. And he doesn't have the best sense of fabric, anyways," Hank's last remark earned a laugh from Jean, who had now pulled out some paperwork and was sitting just a little away at a small, informal desk. "But while he's away looking, can we ask you a few questions about your time at the Lavise Center? Where you were found? It may be important for your medical treatment –"

Hank watched Brinley give a small nod, and then began trying to get more information. "Do you know how long you were there?"

Brinley tried to decide the length of time, but realized it had been too long since she thought about it. "Can I see a calendar?" In a second, Jean brought over a little pocket-calendar she pulled from a drawer. "Er – well, I guess it's a little over five years," Brinley answered, after trying to remember what year she had been imprisoned.

"Do you remember why you were brought there?" Jean asked quietly.

"Payment. For a bet lost, I think. I don't really remember any details – jus' that I was on a plane and they picked me up at the airport. And then I was there."

"A plane?" Hank interjected.

"Yeah, a plane. They didn't tell me I was going to be locked up, y'know? Or I would have jumped flights."

"Where were you flying in from?" He pressed.

"London."

"But you're not originally from London…" He surmised, since her accent suggested east coast America, not British.

"No," she shook her head. "My father sent me to London to go to school there. It was a school for – well, I think like this one. I only had three years left, then I was going to move on. He set up a trust fund for me right after he sent me to the school."

Jean looked poignantly at Hank. "I think the Professor is going to want to hear about this."

Hank nodded, and then once again turned his attention to Brinley. "What's your father's name? We'll try and contact him, if you want. Not many mutants have families that care about them, and it seemed like you have a better relationship with him than many others have with their families."

"He died…the same year I went there. In a car accident. And my mom passed away from cancer – when I was ten."

The door opened at the other end of the room, and the sound of footsteps brought Logan back to the three mutants, carrying several shirts of varying colors. "Got 'em."

Brin smiled tentatively as she took the shirts the man offered to her, then looked questioningly at Jean and Hank. "Is there anyway I can take a bath – or a shower? I haven't had a proper one in…"

"Yes, of course – there's a bathroom in there," Jean pointed to the door on the left wall.

Brinley made her way into the bathroom, closing the door securely behind her, and put the new shirts on the lid of the toilet. Quickly stripping the rest off her body and laying the pieces on top of the shirts, she looked in the vanity mirror. It wasn't the worst she had looked over the last five years – in fact, she had a few cuts and scraps across her body, and only a few darkening bruises. The rest were the yellowish-sick color of old, healing bruises. A few of them adorned her neck, around the metal piece, where the blonde woman at the Lavise Center had taken to pulling roughly on the collar to make sure it was intact.

"Where did you get the shirts, Logan? Because you sure weren't gone long enough to have gone door-to-door asking," Brin heard Jean ask, muffled by the closed door.

"You hurt my feelings, Jean. Maybe I ran into someone on my way upstairs…"

There was a steady silence, and then Logan spoke again. "Fine. I took some of Gambit's shirts from his wash that he had left there in the wash room. I'll tell him later."

Brinley moved to the shower, turning it on and stepping back to wait for the water to warm. It took only a few seconds, and then she stepped, sighing, into the steaming water. Looking around, she found soap and shampoo sitting in the corner, seemingly unused. She grabbed the soap first, scrubbing her body until it was red. The shampoo came next – and her tangled, snarled hair was much harder to deal with. Finally, a long time later – as the water began to run cold – she stepped out onto the tiled floor and toweled herself off.

She slipped into the shorts first, finding them much more comfortable now that she had taken a shower. She grabbed the top shirt next, the deep purple silk fabric gliding over her skin. Sighing contentedly, she buttoned the shirt up, enjoying how the fabric did not seem to hold the same irritating itchiness that the last one did. Turning to get the rest of the piled up shirts, including Logan's, she caught the scent that the shirt couldn't get out from the wash. It held the same musky, smoky smell that the jacket from the previous night had held – and in a strange way, she found it a bit comforting.

She walked out of the bathroom to be greeted with an increased number of visitors in her section of the medical quarters. Making her way to the bed, she warily watched the ones she didn't know, and handed the now-unused shirt to Logan.

Jean watched her friends, frustrated. "Sorry, Brinley – but sometimes its hard to stop everyone from holding back their enthusiasm for a day." She pointed at a plate of food sitting on the small desk. "They brought dinner, though."

Brinley put the pile of shirts on the bed, and sat at the desk, unquestioningly beginning to eat her dinner.

"This is Ororo Munroe – most call her Storm," Jean began introductions with Brinley glancing up at her visitors. "And Scott Summers – Cyclops. And then there's Bobby – Iceman – and Marie – Rogue. And now," Jean glared at everyone, "they'll all be leaving for the evening."

A few of the newcomers grumbled as Jean tried to usher them out of the medical bay. Brinley watched in amusement as she finished her dinner, leaning back in her chair. She found these new mutants interesting, and she enjoyed the contact with other humans – mutants – that didn't involve the beatings that the prison included.

But Jean's work of getting everyone to leave was hindered as the medical bay door once again opened, there were footsteps, and then there was Gambit, now washed and shaven, joining the group.

"I was told ya needed me, chere?" He addressed Jean.

Jean sighed in frustration as all her work was suddenly halted; so, instead, Hank answered the Cajun. "Well, yes – you see, we noticed Brinley had this interesting…well, _collar_, since we don't have a better name for it, on her…and we've been rather unsuccessful on getting it off. We've been trying while you slept," he added as an aside to Brinley. "And it's a bit close to your neck to just _shear_ it off…"

"Ah, a lock! Mon ami, one of my specialities…" Gambit walked over to Brinley, kneeling by the chair to get a better look at what type of lock was used. "How ya doin', petite?"

"Oh, well, much better, I suppose – "

"Is dat _my_ shirt…?" He cut her off, glancing at the purple shirt Brinley now wore. "I mean, it looks good on ya, chere," he winked at Brin, "but _where…_?" He finished his question, looking between Jean and Hank.

"Oh, yeah – I forgot to tell ya. I grabbed a few of your shirts that you left in the wash room. And they were there for a month _before_ you got captured," Logan responded.

"Look, can you pick the lock or not?" Jean sighed, not wanting an argument between the two men.

"Oh, I can pick de lock. Don' insult me."

He shuffled in a pocket, pulling out a small metal prong, and then started working at the small lock embedded in the collar. Brinley watched her empty dinner plate awkwardly and trying to ignore the uneasy feeling of having someone work so close to her face. Jean leaned against a wall, finally giving up on getting everyone out of the area, as a few conversations grew between teammates.

And then, Brinley gave a sigh of relief as she felt the collar give way and fall to the ground. Her fingers traced the skin that had beneath the metal, enjoying the feeling of any type of sensation on the skin other than metal. She barely noticed the quieted room, now staring at her.

But it wasn't that they were staring _at_ her. They were, in fact, staring at an empty chair – the illusion of the chair, without a woman sitting in it.

Gambit grabbed the now-open collar and gave it to Jean, who was watching the chair curiously.

"Brin?"

And then the room flickered, and the brunette woman looked at the others, slightly flushed with embarrassment. "Sorry. It's habit, you know," she shrugged. "Thank you, Remy," she glanced at the man, her hands still on her throat.

"My pleasure, petite –" he answered, eyebrow cocked in curiosity. "Dat's what de t'ing kept ya from doin'?"

"Yeah…I haven't been able to do that since the first couple of months at the prison," she breathed, enjoying the freedom of being able to use her abilities again. "Then they seemed to realize it's hard to keep someone caged in when you don't know what you're seeing." She smiled, a little bitterly. "I almost escaped a couple of times, you know. I wasn't always so complacent."

"So you're another mind-binder, like the Professor and Jean here?" Logan muttered at her.

"No – well – I don't know what they do, exactly," she looked apologetically at Jean, "but it's illusions. It's limited only to illusions."

"Okay – that's good, now, Brinley…" Jean said, nodding, then glanced at everyone else. "Now, everyone – out. Out, out, out. I don't need the rest of the school wandering down here wondering where you all disappeared to."

A few muttered good-byes and Jean was ushering them out of the medical bay. As Brinley sat alone, she flickered her surroundings into illusions of places she barely remembered – the old buildings of London, the park she grew up near, the Yale student union…

She stopped suddenly as she realized Jean had rejoined her, watching. "Sorry."

"It's fine, Brinley – I understand. But I need to go get some sleep – and I think you do, too. Until we figure out everything, and make sure you're completely alright, do you mind staying down here? There's the bathroom that you already saw, and we have a small bedroom that was built in for the long-term stays…" Brinley nodded, and Jean opened the other door that Brinley hadn't entered earlier. "I'll be back down her early…you'll probably be sleeping, still. And I was hoping after breakfast we could go see Professor Xavier," Jean explained to Brinley as she carried the shirts into the room, looking around interestedly.

It was a small-ish room, but with a full, proper bed, and carpeted ground.

"Thank you, Jean…good-night," She said as she began to rearrange the sheets to get under them.

"Good-night, Brinley," Jean smiled as she closed the door.

Brin had only been awake for a couple of hours, but she felt the exhaustion creep up on her quickly. Curling up under the tan sheets, she tried to focus on the soft feeling of the pillows and mattress – something she hadn't felt for years. The day's events whirled in her mind, and as she pulled the collar of the shirt up, closer to her face, she let the nearly washed-out smell of spice and smoke lull her to sleep.


End file.
